


The Nature of Epiphany

by foxriverinmate



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Incest, M/M, mention of suicide, what might be construed as non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxriverinmate/pseuds/foxriverinmate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Addiction comes in many forms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nature of Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wanton_erato](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=wanton_erato).



> Originally written for wanton_erato in pbfic_exchange2. She asked for a cashmere throw and a bottle of single malt scotch, amongst other things, and she gave me so much choice I thought it would be like falling off a log but it really wasn’t! When it came to the last week before it was due I was filled with doubt so tried another angle and ended up writing a second fic. This is the original, although at the welcome suggestion from the wonderful halfshellvenus I've changed Michael's POV, which appeared in the original post at PBFE2...
> 
> PLEASE BE AWARE BEFORE YOU READ THAT THERE IS ONE SCENE WITHIN THIS STORY THAT COULD BE CONSTRUED AS NON-CON. I HOPE THE IDEA THAT THE CHARACTER IS DENYING WHAT HE WANTS RATHER THAN WHAT HE MIGHT BE BEING FORCED TO DO IS EVIDENT ENOUGH.

Once an addict, always an addict.

Wasn’t that the truth? And your earliest addiction was the catalyst that set in motion the events that led to you being here in this grim cell, trying to prepare yourself for your imminent death, while giving you plenty of time to reflect on all the things you did wrong.

Once an addict, always an addict.

 

**~**

 

You still had lucid months in between the burning need for what you craved most.

Like times with Veronica. Those were probably the best times of your life, unless you count your childhood before he went away and yet you still couldn’t keep on the straight and narrow and your addiction led you to veer from the path too many times.

You loved Veronica. You never doubted that fact.

But that need, that desperate desire to lose yourself in your addiction was something that, no matter how hard you tried, no matter what lengths you went to, still had you crawling back for more.

You knew it was wrong. Unnatural, twisted, sinful but you could no more deny yourself your fix after a long abstinence than you could deny air to your lungs or oxygen to your brain.

Lisa made you stop. Or at least the news that she was having your kid brought an end to your desperate craving, if only for a while. It was still there, buzzing in the background, not letting you go, but you were the dutiful father and stuck by Lisa.

Until she didn’t want you and you were just a part-time father and/or babysitter for your son.

And that’s how you find yourself once again at the small apartment that to you is home, the old familiar craving like fire in your veins, and you’re helpless to resist.

**~**

After letting yourself in, your first feeling is that the apartment is empty and you feel the bile of despair and disappointment rise up your throat.

But something tells you someone is home. The tiny yet impeccably neat living room is somehow off; one of the faded cushions is lying on the floor, a small pile of school books lying in an untidy heap next to it and the cashmere blanket Veronica bought you both that he uses as a throw to disguise the second-hand sofa, is askew. You realise that something’s not quite right if these things are out of place in this apartment, which for all its down-market décor and aging furniture, he keeps neat to the point of obsession.

Like you, he knows all about obsession. He’s nothing if not obsessed with detail and keeping everything in its place is part of what defines him as a person.

Your eyes focus on the bottle of single malt scotch, the one your then boss gave you as a bonus last Christmas, the one that he hid because you had a tendency to be too rough when you were drunk, on the scarred coffee table and the empty glass beside it. The bottle is only just over half full and a sudden fear sends a cold chill racing up your spine.

“Michael?” You call fearfully, not liking the sudden trepidation that turns your stomach to water yet unable to define the reason for your disquiet. “Michael?” Louder this time though when you still receive no response your feet seem to move without your conscious consent and you find yourself moving along the hallway that runs the length of the apartment towards the bedroom.

“Michael?”

The pile of clothes that begins half way along and continue to the threshold of the bathroom, as if signposting your way, catches your attention and you push the half-closed door fully open.

Moving closer, unaware that you’re holding your breath, the bloody razor blade you see lying on the floor next to one of the big clawed feet of the old-fashioned tub stops you dead in your tracks.

Coherent thoughts fly away in the face of that blade and the watery blood that it lies in and you don’t see a few trickles of blood but an ocean of it and your mind gives you the horrifying image of your baby brother lying in a deep tub of vermillion, his lifeless eyes staring up at you in accusation.

“Oh God! No!” You notice the hand reaching up to the shower curtain is shaking badly and the guilty thoughts that batter your brain feels like a tidal wave of guilt and remorse and regret and shame.

This is your fault, asshole. The harsh voice in your head tells you. He only did this because of you. Happy now?

“Michael!” Your fear emasculates you and your voice is almost a girly squeak as your shaking hand grabs on to the curtain and you pull it back, your eyes closing reflexively as if to protect you from what your brain has convinced your subconscious mind you will see.

Falling to your knees, your suddenly nerveless hand falls from the curtain to hang, like the other, at your side and while there’s some relief that Michael is not dead or dying in a blood-red tub the sight you see still terrifies you beyond reason.

Your mind might have told you there would be blood; a great deal of blood; in actuality there is just a long thin trail of it streaming out in the bath water, wispy lines of crimson from the cuts in his fingers, but it’s the very idea that your brother would even consider suicide that shakes you to the very crux of your soul.

 

**~**

 

“Michael, what the fuck…?” you growl, fear making anger flare as the sight of your brother huddled in the tub in a state closely resembling catatonia galvanises you into action. You pull out the plug and the cooling water starts to gurgle its way down the pipe as you put a finger under your brother’s chin and lift his head up just to stare into a pair of blank hazel eyes. “What the fuck…?” you add like he can hear you.

Not bothering to verbalise your thoughts or actions any further you get your hands under his armpits and lift, expecting dead weight but incredibly Michael is kind of responding.

Maybe he isn’t lost completely in the maelstrom of sensory input his near-genius mind has trapped him in once before.

Hoisting him up, helping him stand fully before damn near lifting him from the almost empty tub you feel the chill of his skin and if you can do little for him mentally you can at least get him warm and comfortable physically. And the smell of alcohol is strong on his breath. Something close to a half bottle of single malt scotch tends to linger.

“Fuck, Mikey,” you almost wail, unaware you’ve even spoken as you grab one of the fluffy bath sheets that were another gift from Veronica from the rickety towel rail and wrap it around him.

It’s a struggle because he’s not a little boy anymore; he’s seventeen and nearly six feet tall now, close to graduating Valedictorian from high school and with a bright future ahead of him.

At least that’s what you’d hoped. Why you’d just sold your soul for ninety thousand dollars to give him the chance he deserves after all the shit you’ve put him through since he was fifteen and you’d awoken in the ratty bed you both shared to find him dry-humping your hip, clearly still asleep, afraid to move for fear he’d awaken and…what? Be embarrassed? Or fear that you’d act on the feelings you’d had for him for close on a year and take your brother, your baby brother, for fuck’s sake, in his ass and destroy any love he might have for you?

Now, thanks to you and the way you’d treated him like he was a chemical substance that for a while took away your own pain only to drop him for Veronica or Lisa while you went cold turkey, leaving him feeling used and unloved, his bright future might be over even before it’s even begun.

Grunting a little with the effort, even though he’s using his own legs to propel himself forward, and swaying like you’ve both been out on an all-night bender, you guide him to the bedroom and let his lax body slump onto the bed.

Grabbing his hand you look closely at his damaged fingers, realising it must have been the razor blade left lying on the tiled floor of the bathroom that sliced his water-wrinkled flesh, and while his long, elegant fingers have been bleeding quite heavily all over the white towel, you can see the blood is beginning to clot. At least he isn’t going to bleed to death from those small wounds.

Satisfied, you look up at his face to find him looking back at you with haunted eyes.

“I couldn’t do it,” he slurs brokenly. “I wa…wanted to…I did…”

Kind of sure what Michael wanted to do but needing to hear the words you try to coax something that might make sense out of his mouth. “What couldn’t you do, Michael?”

His haunted eyes stare back at you, not quite focused because it’s clear he’s still drunk.

The next thing you know you’re on your ass and he’s on top of you, his hands clenched tightly into ivory fists and he’s pummelling you and shouting incoherently until you roughly grasp his wrists in your own big hands and eventually, tears streaming down his cheeks, he quietens a little.

“I wanted to kill myself, Linc,” he murmurs like the confession is costing him much more than six simple words.

You knew it but it still shocks you to your core.

“Shit, Michael,” and you really know why but because you’re a stupid fuck you just have to ask. “Why?”

Your mouth falls open in shock as he rears back from you, pushing you away as his chest heaves and he can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs and his eyes grow too big for his face.

“Because you don’t want me, Linc,” he states flatly. “You don’t love me.”

Denial spills from your lips like intestines from a gutted animal. “That’s not true, Mikey.”

“If you loved me you wouldn’t keep leaving me the way you do!” His words are slightly slurred with a combination of emotion and single malt.

Pushing yourself to a sitting position on the floor you grab his arm to pull him into your embrace, to kiss him and reassure him that you do love him; you do. “Mikey…”

When he springs backwards from your touch and shuffles, crab-like, towards the corner of the room your heart almost breaks. The sight of your beautiful baby brother, his arms clasped tightly around his knees, banging his head against the wall is something you’ve seen before but never gotten used to.

“Michael, please…”

“You fuck me then you leave me, Linc,” Michael wails, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You get me addicted to you and your love and then you leave me and I can’t take it any more.” And he resumes the rhythmic banging, his eyes unfocused and infinitely sad.

His words hurt for you can see the truth in them. You dragged him into your addiction and then kept leaving him without the drug his body craved so badly while you were off trying to do normal things leaving your brother to fight his own battle with cold turkey.

“I’m a father now, Mikey,” you say, trying to justify the times you’ve left him craving. “I have responsibilities.”

“Fuck you, Linc!” he shouts. “You know I love LJ too but don’t give me that shit about being responsible! Have you forgotten how many times you’ve fucked me since LJ was born? Don’t you remember you’ve even done it? Because I fucking do!”

He’s right and you know it. Whenever anything went wrong between you and Lisa, or before that, you and Veronica, Michael was the one you buried yourself in, emotionally and physically.

And each and every time you’d rekindle his addiction before leaving him again.

And irony of ironies, now, when he’s at his lowest ebb, what is it you want more than anything in the world?

To bury yourself to the hilt in your baby brother’s sweet ass and seek solace and comfort in him because he’s the only one in your life, since your mother died when he, Michael, was only eleven, who loves you unconditionally.

Moving towards him your voice takes on the soothing tones you know he’s heard so many times before and you know with certainty that he hasn’t the strength to resist because you spellbound him when you knew he was too vulnerable to resist you.

“I’m sorry, Mikey. I don’t mean to hurt you, baby boy. I love you. I’ll take care of you.”

And just for a moment he seems calm as you pull his arms away from his legs and curl yours around his neck, pulling him to you to soothe, to comfort and before you can stop yourself you’re breathing in his scent and it fills your nostrils like the line of cocaine you did two nights before, only this is more addictive, more satisfying, more dangerous and your lips take his in a bruising kiss and even though you know he wants to resist he can’t; he can’t, because he loves you.

What kind of a man are you who has just found your brother drunk in a tub of water with a razor blade close by and yet all you can think to do is kiss him? More than that you’re desperate to fuck him because isn’t that what you came back here to do?

You draw back and even the tears glistening on his cheeks don’t make your longing go away and the beast takes over and you’re dragging him to the bed, pushing him down on it and even if he’s saying no, you’re not hearing him.

For so many years you looked out for your baby brother; loved him, protected him from the other kids who didn’t understand him, didn’t appreciate that he was special so now a part of you cries out to stop what you’re doing.

Maybe if he’d had the strength to end it all in that bath tub you wouldn’t be feeling filled with guilt right now but that’s fucked up because if you had found your brother bled out and cold in the tub your guilt would have been so overwhelming you doubt you would have been able to live with it.

So while the detatched part of your mind thinks logical thoughts, and has the decency to at least _feel_ guilt, the addict in you grabs the lube from the nightstand drawer and as soon as you’re naked, which is pretty much a world record time, you feel his slick naked skin burning against yours and you feel you’ve won a small victory as his legs fall open for you just as they always have. Open for you; open _to_ you and you’re feverishly coating your throbbing, aching cock with lube and you hope he’s wanting you to do this, to fuck him, because you know he’s addicted to you too.

You look into his tearful eyes and see the truth of that and all the time your mind is crying out _Sorry, Mikey! Sorry, Mikey!_ but it doesn’t stop you.

You know the slick fingers fumbling in his anus are too hurried and you know he’s not properly prepared but he doesn’t protest when you flip him onto all fours and cover his beloved body with yours and that keening noise that you can hear is you, sounding like an animal maddened with hunger and pain. Blood is pounding in your ears as you push into him, wrapping your strong arm around his body, pulling him possessively to you as you hear him sobbing with the pain of the invasion and you hope he doesn’t want you to stop because that time has long since past.

Hearing your own ragged breathing as you pound into him, you almost laugh as the sounds in your ears change and become whimpers and moans as you feast yourself on his body. You can’t stop; won’t stop because after months of pent-up denial you need to _feel_ something and you need your brother to feel something too.

The _wrongness_ of this still burns your brain but the _need_ burns harder and you’re vaguely aware he’s taken his own cock in his hand and he’s jerking off madly, no rhythm, just need, as you pound away in his ass until your weight finally makes him fall forward onto his face and you still don’t miss a beat but the hand around his cock must be trapped between his body and the mattress and he’s crying again and still you push deep inside him as your breathing grows more and more ragged.

When you finally fill him with your spend you hear him whimper, this time in frustration because the weight of your body pressing down on his is stopping him coming.

When your breathing has finally returned to normal you slide off your weeping brother, blinking like you’ve just come out of a trance, and when you look over at his tear-stained face you feel like guilt is going to eat it’s way into your very soul and even though you don’t deserve it you want so much for him to absolve you of that guilt.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

“Yeah, we did,” he breathes, his voice faltering on an almost hysterical giggle and then you see his face change and you know from when he was little and he would stubbornly refuse to do something that it’s his resolve face he’s wearing. Except it isn’t just resolve; your baby brother, the baby brother you’ve just fucked and denied release in that act, looks like he’s just had an epiphany and it shocks you to the core.

Today he contemplated killing himself and instead of being the understanding older sibling you let yourself fall back into that old addiction and you practically raped him and now he looks like what the two of you had between you is finally over because you’ve never seen him look this determined before. The fundimental change in him is hard earned but isn’t that the nature of epiphany?

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry, Michael.”

He pushes himself back up to his hands and knees, shakes his head at you. “Don’t be sorry, Lincoln,” he says. “I’m as guilty as you are because I’m an addict too. But no more. It’s over. I think what we just did was aversion therapy because it doesn’t matter how much I want you or how much you plead with me to let you have me, that was the last time.”

It almost makes you want to howl when you hear his words but you know from the look in his eyes that this time he means it.

In a few short months he’ll be going to Loyola, what he thought of as his share of your Mom’s insurance money going to better use than the share he thinks you had and he’ll be living in the Halls of Residence, away from you, free of you, and his compulsion to beg you to fuck him, like he has so many times in the past, will abate.

“Mikey…I’m sorry…”

He nods. You know he’ll have the craving again but from now on you’re sure that he will be the strong one and all the begging in the world won’t make him weaken.

 

**~**

It was kind of ironic that he turned out to be the strong one in the end.

But the irony isn’t lost on you because only your kid brother would have the mental strength to go through with what he intends to do.

Save your sorry ass.

Are you worth it? He must think so and yet all you’d ever been was an addict.

And your biggest addiction was him.


End file.
